Intimidation Games
by inkedinserendipity
Summary: In her years sailing the ocean, Moana has encountered other tribes, like Motunui, stranded and windless after the fall of Te Fiti. Unfortunately, some of them don't like change. Fortunately, she's the only Chief with a semi-demi-minigod on her side.
1. Chapter 1

The season of storms has fallen upon Motunui. But on this night, there is no rain; instead, a quick-moving wind zips far above the sturdily thatched roofs of the village, heaving away at the looming, sagging clouds that saturate the evening sky. Indeed, it would seem that the gods themselves smile upon Motunui - that during this, the first meeting of Chiefs, rain would be so unwilling to fall.

The dimming sun along the horizon marks the third moonrise since this convention of Chiefs began. Along the boundaries between the sand and the waves, five fires of unity plume smoke and tongues of flame toward the sky, gleaming as though one of the stars high above. Each one, strategically placed by the Chief's own sister, mark a path from the Chief's Peak to the five islands with whom the Chief of Motunui and her people bargain.

But even as the people of Motunui breathe a sigh of relief at the good omen of the Gods, two pairs of footsteps trod along Motunui's shores in discontent, the light of the isle called Hehena glowing against their backs.

For some time, their footsteps ring out against the ocean and the nearby hooting of a blue-feathered _ti'otala_ ensconced in the darkness of Motunui's untamed forests. The bird, comfortable upon the branches of a tree overhanging the lapping waves, hops along its perch, tilting its head inquisitively at the foreign footsteps. As they grow too close for comfort, the _ti'otala_ springs into the air with a panicked flap of its wings, eager to distance itself from the Chief-and-brother duo that nears it.

"Amosa," the first voice begins, rumbling through the sand clenched around his feet. "I find myself at a crossroads."

"The Chief keeps refusing?"

"Indeed." An incensed sigh sounds as the two pass beneath the branch that once sheltered the _ti'otala_. "I offer her a trade and she refuses every one. The young Chief does not believe the yams of Hehena to be a worthwhile supplant to the supplies of Motunui. Whatever I offer, the girl will not accede!"

"She's got fire," the second notes, but a hiss cuts him off.

"She is _arrogant_. She is obstinate and proud," it claims forcefully, words biting through the dimming sky. "She believes herself to hold the spark of discovery, she views herself above us because she was the first to sail the seas. The girl thinks that her fire is used to light the way - but instead she shall be the ember to burn her village to the ground."

A pause. Then, nervously, "What d'you mean?"

The first takes a deep, long breath, sucking the fresh air of Motunui's forests between two chunky teeth. "What I mean to say, Amosa, is that so long as the girl is Chief of Motunui, we will not secure trade on this isle."

"But yam's all we have to offer - well, all we have to offer that the other four can't -"

"Precisely," it spits, the word cleaving through the rhythm of the forest. The first set of footsteps still, lingering by the fringe edge of the forest as it encroaches on the beach. A half-second after, the second follows suit. "It is all we have to offer. If the girl does not accept we will lose standing with her tribe and the rest on this, our first meeting. While she refuses, the others follow like lemmings." The voice curses and spits on the ground.

In the shadows of the forest, the dimmed moonlight plays briefly off of a the sharpened edge of a fishhook, before its owner brushes it once more behind foliage, out of sight of the shore.

"Maybe we could work around her, Chief Laki. Negotiate individually with Taugata - they seemed pretty willing to buy what they could, and we could use their almond-nuts to curry favor with Motunui's healers."

The Chief scoffs, as though the mere thought of trading Hehena's prized _ufi_ for _talie_ wounds him. "No. Hehena will stand on her own feet, without the crutch of the others." The cloud-fettered starlight hums nervously across his shoulders as he draws himself tall, staring unseeingly in the direction of his island out across the sea. "If we are to stand tall, Amosa, we will need to rise above Motunui and its Chief. To, hmm... to chop off her legs, per se."

The second voice is quiet. Still secreted away in inky blackness, a demigod stews. Over the horizon, the last of the sun sets.

The piercing call of the _ti'otala_ returns once more, this time sorrowful, struggling to circle the mountain through the growing winds that whip through the mountaintop. But her cries fall upon two pairs of deaf ears.

"M-murder?" the second voice says, shaking, as though the very word will call upon the Chief herself to smite him.

A smug, grin lights the darkness adorning the forest' empty branches. "An accident."

Silence trickles between the two men as they stand upon the grasses of Motunui, entirely oblivious to the eavesdropper crouched in the shade of the trees lining the shore. For a long moment, there is no sound but the beating of the waves upon sand and the quiet moan of the shackled moon glinting across the waves. As the quiet stretches, the waves grow more agitated, roaring up the beach at a higher tide than the silvery crescent moon dictates.

But neither man takes notice.

"I understand," the Hehenan called Amosa replies quietly.

"Can I count on you?"

An audible swallow. Then, "I'll do whatever you ask."

With a violent start, the sea rushes the men in one final attempt to drag them down, waves wrapping around their ankles and straining, but to no avail.

Their footsteps, accustomed to years of movement upon a sandy shore, glide unrestrainedly and noiselessly over the beach and into the depths of the forest. Above their heads, a growing wind howls through the tops of the trees, even as the sea subsides in defeat. This strange feral wind shoves the clouds fully from the skies of Motunui, bathing the entire village in moonlight, illuminating the path ahead.

All across the island, the flames of unity flicker for a brief moment as the howling wind reaches them; then, as it diverts around harmlessly them, they rekindle, flaring brighter than before.

Oblivious to the winds of chaos swirling about the island, the two men continue up the winding path toward Motunui.

The duo has trekked halfway from the beach toward the brightly-lit fringes of the village when they stop abruptly, detained by the sudden appearance of a figure clothed in shadow. Above their heads, the wind stills, and only in the vacuum of its absence do the two Hehenans look up to wonder at the clamor.

"Hi!" Maui says brightly, fishhook tucked behind his back. He sinks into an ironic half-bow. "What are two lovely men such as yourselves doing so far from the celebrations on a night like this?"

Chief Laki's face remains unmoved, but at his side, his brother Amosa pales visibly even in the darkness. Maui's wild grin only grows as he straightens.

"That is none of your concern, child of Motunui," Laki dismisses him.

Maui stifles a laugh at the designation. "Ooh, I really think it is."

"Listen, tribesman," Laki continues, irritation tinging his voice with ringing imperialism. "You will stand aside."

A pause, during which Maui conspicuously doesn't move. The Chief of Hehena raises two fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I do not wish confrontation. Remove yourself from our path -"

Maui cuts him off with a full-bellied, booming laugh. Impatient, Laki's hands twitch toward his waist, doubtless reaching for a knife. Maui lets him. "Let me think about that for a couple of minutes."

"I will not ask again."

"Hmmm..." Maui pretends to consider Laki's words, rolling his eyes skyward. Then, all traces of humor gone, he trains his eyes once more toward the seething Chief. "No."

"Then I will make you," Laki intones quietly. In a whirl of movement remarkable for a mortal, he hefts the knife and slashes at Maui.

A twitch of his lips is the only response Maui gives. Triumph appears, bitter and twisted, on Laki's face.

Then the knife is torn from Laki's hand. The wind's howling resumes abruptly, deafening both men in a swirling cacophony of anger, snatching at their garments and tossing them like a sack of bamboo into a nearby tree.

Both of their heads hit the tree trunk-first. Backs shorn painfully against the stone littering the forest floor, they skid several feet in the rocky grass surrounding the trees.

Maui lets them sit in shock for a couple of seconds. They're still dazed, not entirely sure what happened. And, y'know, maybe he shouldn't have cajoled the wind into throwing them that hard into a tree, but hey. They deserved it.

It takes them an impressively long time to sit up, and they're not even standing when Maui decides their grace period is over and strides toward them, letting the curved outline of his hook swing at his side. The smaller one notices; the larger one does not. Chief Laki, if Maui recalls correctly - wow, never liked that guy - puffs up his chest instead.

Heh. Mortals have always been particularly bad at making first impressions on gods.

(With one notable exception, he thinks wryly, remembering how the sea parted before her feet.)

"Look, guys. I'll spare you the gory details," he says, tone light, and flashes a huge white grin that gleams unnaturally in the darkness, "but if I were you, I'd...let up on the badmouthing the Chief of Motunui."

"Who are you?" the smaller one whimpers.

Maui shrugs, his broad shoulders heaving up and down. From their vantage point, his face is entirely invisible, save the eerie flash of his teeth. Only his silhouette, lined with wisps of silver in the moonlight, reaches their eyes. "No one important."

"I demand that you state your name," the Chief says in a tone clearly accustomed to having said demands obeyed. Even on the ground, his voice smacks of arrogance.

"Nah. But if you're so keen on knowing who I am, let me keep this simple. Y'know, since you take so long catching up."

He holds out his hand. The wide eyes of both men follow his movements carefully. Laki's knife, propelled by a sudden breeze, flies toward it; and in one quick, decisive movement, he wraps his hands around the hilt. He extends his arm toward the side so that his every move is clearly visible, muscles lined still with white. With slow, deliberate movements, he crushes the hilt of the blade into hundreds of tiny pieces. Then he lets his hands unfurl slowly, like the release of a sail on a calm day.

Piece by piece, the broken knife clatters to the ground.

"You so much as try to touch the Chief, and...well. This knife won't be the only thing in pieces." Another grin. "Let's just say you might need a splint for your spine."

Then, just for dramatic effect, Maui pulls out his trusty hook, and raises it high into the sky, where it cannot be ignored. Recognition and fear light their faces in eerie synchronicity, and once more, he marvels at the difference between Moana and these cowards.

"See ya," he whispers cheerily, and in a flash of his hook, disappears.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun rises, and sets, and as the moon rises once more Maui can't find Moana in her _fale_ going over the day's trades with her sister. Nor is she in the Gathering Hall chatting with her people; nor down by the ocean, watching the waves as they roll peacefully onto the shore. Then he checks the Cavern of the Ancestors, but no luck. Normally when she's not in Motunui proper, he can find her in the Cavern, staring at the waves from atop a rock, arms crossed over her knees, or standing tall in front of crafts of the Chiefs of old with her hands laced behind her back and chest puffed with pride.

But she's not in the Cavern either, and he exits the rocky entrance befuddled. It's not until he spots a weary-looking Arihi, tired and hassled from a long day of negotiations, that an idea strikes him.

The pounding of a hammer upon _apa_ as he approaches the newly-formed forge confirms his suspicions before he so much as pulls back the fireproof fabric that forms the threshold. Indeed, even at this late hour of night, the Chief of Motunui labors inside, draped in a thin sheet of fabric as protection against the spitting embers from the flames mere inches from her skin. Around her skull cinches a gift from her mother, protecting her eyes from the spit of the flames, the light from behind her dancing around her silhouette.

With a strength used to heft thick wooden crafts into the ocean and to churn seas, Moana lifts the hammer and strikes down with a sharp _clang_ against the metal in her hands. Maui reclines easily against the thick poles supporting the material, coated in that same fire-resistant cloth, to watch her work.

Her hands still for a brief moment when his back thuds quietly against the pole. Then, the Chief huffs out a small laugh, and keeps pounding away. "You know that there's a forged ring outside. For knocking."

Even though she's facing away from him, he can hear her grinning. "I figured it was a mortal-only type thing. I get my fill of special privileges, being a demigod and all."

"You also get pretty full of yourself." _Clang_. She pauses to wipe the beading sweat off her forehead, one hand lifting to raise the fabric away from her eyes so she can swipe at it with the soot-free back of her forearm.

Maui raises an eyebrow at her clothes, turned midnight-black with ash and soot. "Arihi having a rough time?"

Moana snorts, glancing at her vestments - her simpler dress, not the ceremonial decor of a Chief - and glances ruefully at him. "You could say that. It's worse for her than it is for me, dealing with these stuck-up Chieftains," she growls, gesturing in irritation with the head of her hammer. The motion nearly sends a spray of sparks toward the pole, and with a small sigh, Moana dunks it in water and sets it aside. "I, at least, have standing. As the younger sister, they just figure they can walk all over her," Moana tells him, sprinkling water over the remnants of the bellowing flames; as the embers fizzle out, they spit their agreement.

"So La'ei needs pineapple cake immediately," he concludes.

"And Arihi needs a pot to make it, yep." In one sweeping motion, Moana hefts the handle of a metal pot, and turns fully to face him, a wry grin gracing her face. "La'ei's needs always come first."

"Uh-huh. Especially when it comes time to give Arihi gifts."

She snorts at him. "I am nothing if not a concerned aunt." Then she pauses. "Wait, am I really so transparent?"

"I've known you for four years now, Curly. So...yes."

"You wound me."

Grunting quietly, she hefts the pan upward and dunks it into the water, then shifts her grip from one palm to the other, shaking her sore wrist through the air.

Steam rises from the heating pail of water and blows in her face. This new material for crafting, _apa_ , was - by stroke of luck - the primary trade of Tumu, one of the first peoples with whom Moana established trade. Though Moana strives for impartiality as the unofficial leader of the six tribes, the peoples of Motunui get along remarkably well with the Tumuans. Oftentimes, the two tribes share stories and customs long after negotiations conclude.

Moana twirls her handiwork slowly through the water for several moments, watching it idly in case it clangs against the metal side of the pail, then looks at him.

"So," she starts casually, which is enough to make Maui very, very suspicious. He knows that tone of voice. "Laki was remarkably amicable during negotiations today."

 _Taema's toenails_. "Must've had a change of heart," Maui comments neutrally, wrapping his hands behind his back so she can't see his fingers fidgeting.

"Mhmm," she smirks at him. In one smooth motion, she lifts the pan from the pail of water and holds it close to her face. She runs a single finger over the curved edges, inspecting it for imperfections. "And I suppose it's got nothing to do with the sudden maelstrom Motunui experienced for a couple of seconds last night," she says, gaze flicking from her craft to him for a brief moment.

"Hey, what can I say? It's the rainy season."

"Yet there wasn't any rain. How odd."

She watches him flounder with something close to amusement for a couple of seconds before laughing at him. "Look," she says, setting the pot gently on the counter and crossing the room toward the entrance. "I appreciate what you did, truly. It's nice to know someone has my back." She graces him with a soft smile. "But I can deal with them on my own."

"Moana, they were plotting -"

"An assassination attempt?" Moana grins at him, and the smile turns abruptly from soft to feral, uncomfortably akin to the sharpened teeth of a tiger shark. "He wasn't exactly subtle. Rangi's been watching him for days."

Maui stares at her. Then he breaks into a huge grin. "There's my warrior face," he guffaws, clapping her on the back.

"Thanks!"

Seeing him satisfactorily chastised (or, well, as chastised as a demigod could be), she retrieves the pan, pulling out a pocketknife. The handle, Maui sees, is engraved with the tail and body manta ray. With it, she sets to whittling out the nicks and bumps where the _apa_ melded together incorrectly.

He snorts and grabs a convenient chair from by the entrance of the forge- _fale_. Cracking a yawn, he flips it backward and flops down, hair splaying over his crossed arms and his chin. Faintly, he can hear Moana snort, then feels a warm draft as she re-stokes the fire, grunting as she hefts the hammer and pot once more.

Moana sings while she works. Several years ago, she'd told him that it was her grandmother that taught her to sing. Maui never met her grandmother for himself, but he would've liked to. With what Moana says about her, and how she talks about getting a tattoo of her own - well, he can't tell if he and Gramma Tala would love or hate each other.

Or both.

The tune she hums now is one he's well-familiar with. The exact number of hours he spent preparing that song for the precise moment a mortal dropped into the lap of his island is a secret he will take to the grave and beyond. She times the strokes of her hammer to her own humming, varying in intensity as she clatters along, reshaping the pot to perfection.

The rhythmic clanging of Moana's hammer, her voice humming gently beneath the crackle of the fire, lulls him to sleep.

And when he wakes, the sun is high in the sky. The forge is empty, the fire fully doused, the Chief and her craft vanished; but there is a thick blanket of _apu_ leaves draped around his shoulders.

Deciding that Motunui will keep living without its patron demigod for a day, well-protected in the hands of its capable Chief, Maui rests his chin on his crossed arms and drifts slowly to sleep once more.


End file.
